Roberts was signalling for the desk sergeant to get a trace on the call. The sergeant ignored him, elected not to know what Roberts meant with his furious hand gestures. See how he liked to be fucked with.

Roberts said into the phone:

‘Any citizen helping the police will be entitled to the full gratitude of the Met?’

Even Roberts knew this sounded like a crock, and the guy said:

‘Tut tut, Chief Inspector, the party line, what? I’ll expect a more enlightened approach when next I call.’

Roberts nigh panicked, rushed:

‘What’s the information? How do I know you’re not just some nut case?’

Silence and Roberts thought the guy was gone, then:

‘You’ll discover the weapon was a Browning Automatic, the full clip was… employed… and my deepest apologies for the somewhat… how shall we say, scatter-gun theatrics, but good help is so hard to find, I’m sure you have similar difficulties with staff. If a next time is required, I shall try to ensure a little more finesse.’

Roberts realised he was sweating, tried:

‘ “Next time.” What the hell does that mean?’

There was a burst of static on the line, then the guy said:

‘if perchance our beloved Sergeant Brant hasn’t cashed in his chips, then we shall have to try again, persistence being the quality we can all aspire to. For now, tootle-pip.’

Roberts wanted to scream, ’ tootle-pip ’? Who the fuck talked like that outside of the pages of a P. G. Wodehouse novel. He gasped:

‘But why, why Sergeant Brant?’

A full baritone laugh, then:

‘Your attempts to keep me on the line are admirable if a tad amateurish, but as to why, really, Chief Inspector, can you honestly think of anyone who doesn’t want to shoot the said misfortunate?’